“And the evil genius, who is that?” asked Perry, casting a significant look at Doctor Stein.
Greyson grinned, but said, “Actually, it was René Descartes in the seventeenth century who first submitted that if an evil genius were controlling all of our perceptions, we would not know the difference. Descartes had no way of knowing how this could be done in a scientific sense, so he posited a magical being, a demon, an evil spirit, to do so. You see, back in those days the word ‘genius’ meant ‘spirit,’ so he was postulating a demon when he called it an evil genius. It wasn’t until the twentieth century that science discovered what neural stimulation could do, and it was then that Penfield proposed the brains-in-vats conundrum.”
Mark Perry pointed at the silver ovoids. “And now you say that they no longer live in a Penfield vat but instead exist in a—a—”
“Now they exist in a Berkeley world,” said Greyson.
Mark sipped his coffee. “Berkeley world?”
“George Berkeley proposed that there is no matter, only thought, and all of our minds are contained within a universal mind. We have free will, but everything we perceive is created by that universal mind.”
Mark Perry’s eyes narrowed. “This universal mind, would that be, uh, God?” Perry cast a glance heavenward.
“You could call it that, Mark. But if you object to the word God, then call it a Supreme Mind.”
Again Mark Perry pointed at the holoscreen. “And just how does that apply here?”
“Why, don’t you see? Their minds are contained within a universal mind, within Avery. All that they are and all that they see, hear, feel, taste, smell, and kinesthetically sense is nothing but pure thought. They have free will—or they are supposed to have it—and so they live in a Berkeley world.”
Perry stroked his chin. “But if I understand you correctly, John, in Berkeley’s world, everything is Godthought, whereas in this case everything is Averythought.”
“Exactly so, my boy. Exactly so.” Greyson looked at the holoscreen, then added, “But no matter which way they turn, they are trapped in one of Socrates’ caverns, shadow trapped, that is.”
They watched as Stein pressed buttons on the console pad, and graphs and charts crawled across the screen. But every time after glancing at the readouts Stein would come back to the glittering ovoids.
“Uh, Henry,” said Greyson. “It occurs to me that the alpha team’s perceptions must be sharper because they are no longer affected by an imperfect interface—the hemisync helmet with its neural stimulus augmented by the suits and visual input. Everything they now apprehend is fed directly into the mind patterns.”
Stein turned and stared at Greyson in astonishment and said, “Very good, John. Very good. I hadn’t thought of that. If these indeed are their mentalities, then what you say is no doubt true.”
As Doctor Stein turned back to the holoscreen, Mark Perry shook Greyson’s hand and silently sneered at the neurosurgeon.
Followed by Billy Clay and Sheila Baxter, Timothy and Drew came back into the AIC. All were dressed in bulky isolation suits, faceplates open. Sheila carried the antique keyboard, now flatwire cabled to an interface plug-in covered with hitemp-superconductor ICs, all wrapped in bubblepack. Timothy stepped to Toni Adkins. “We’re going inside and jack this directly into one of Avery’s comports. If it works, we’ll have communication with him. I’ll log in as superuser and see if Avery can restore the mentalities to the alpha team—slip their minds back into their bodies, that is.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Toni.
“Then it’s back to the old drawing screen,” replied Timothy.
“How much drain will the nitrogen lock put on the battery?” She looked at the doomsday clock: 2:08:21 remained.
Timothy glanced toward Doctor Meyer. “Drew says some . . . but listen, Toni, this auxiliary interface board is the only thing I can think of that’ll give us a chance of contacting Avery. We’ve got to try it even though the lock pumps’ll pull considerable current.”
Toni lowered her head and gazed at the floor and sighed. Then she looked up at Timothy. “Go. Go.”
Timothy stepped to the dark, glass-walled cube, where the others stood by. Drew punched the button on the nitrogen lock, and they waited for the light to go green and the door to unlatch. Finally, with a clack the latch released, and the tiny flat screen glowed green.
They crowded into the small personnel lock and pulled the door shut, securing it. “Faceplates,” said Timothy, and they locked their plaston shields down and thumbed on their rebreathers. Drew then jabbed the evacuation button, and as air was pumped out and nitrogen in, through the dark glass walls they could see Toni and the others watching.
Finally, the inner latch clacked and lighted green. As they clicked on their helmet lights, Billy opened the door, and into Avery’s cold shadows they stepped.
29
Drasp
(Itheria)
The evening of the day they reached their base camp at the foot of White Mountain, Kane rid the Foxes of their lingering hurts, taking the remaining talon gouges and bite wounds unto himself. The next morning, as they set out, Kane was himself completely healed.
West they rode, toward the Drasp, intending to go to the center of that great swamp to find Horax’s bolt hole, for Pon Barius had called him a bog spider and these dread spinners lair in the center of their poisonous webs. The Foxes intended to rescue Ky, if she yet lived, and to slay Horax regardless. Too, there was the gem to recover.
The Drasp itself lay just over two hundred miles to the west-southwest. A hundred miles wide and nearly two hundred long, it was an enormous morass, shaped like a wedge with its base across the northern extent and its point lying to the south. Fed by several rivers flowing out of the northern hills, the great bog squatted in the lowlands like some huge canker upon the face of the world. And it was said that creatures dire slithered and crawled within its bloated expanse.
And toward this dreadful mire the Foxes rode with vengeance in their hearts.
They were aiming for a point nearly halfway down the near edge. From there they would head northwesterly into the swamp; according to Lyssa’s map, that would be the shortest route through the bog itself from edge to center—some thirty to thirty-five miles all told. It would take them ten days or so to reach the marge of the quag, but they did not know how long it would take to get to the center from there.
“It all depends on what we encounter,” said Lyssa. “If it’s just a lot of wading, well then, three or four days at most. Of course if Horax’s lair isn’t where we are headed . . . it could take awhile.”
“What if it’s quicksand or some such?” asked Arton, not noting the shudder that ran over Arik’s frame.
“Then we’ll just have to go around,” replied Lyssa.
“In my land of Imbia, we had swamps,” said Rith. “Terrible places: blood-sucking leeches, clouds of insects, poisonous snakes, bottomless bogs, strangling vines, vapors to make you ill—only the junga ventured within to get his deadly wares.”
Arton eyed Kane and said, “Looks like you might be busy.”
The big man looked back at Arton. “If it’s bug bites, I’ll just let you itch.”
They rode all that day and the next, three mules and two horses in tow, and on the third day it began to rain—a drenching cold downpour. Even so, onward they pushed, and they spent a miserable time in the saddle as well as in camp that night.
The next evening they came to a small village, where they were put up in a comfortable hayloft, for the hamlet had no inn. After a hearty dawnlight breakfast provided by the barn owner’s wife, the Foxes replenished their supplies and pressed onward. This they did in spite of the warnings of the local peasants concerning the deadly Drasp, though when pressed for hard, cold facts, all the villagers told was but rumor.
That night they camped by a small mere, and Arton managed to gig several frogs. As he stirred a frogleg stew, he paused and fixed his gaze upon Rith. “Wh
at did he mean?”
“What did who mean?”
“Pon Barius.”
“About what?”
“When he said it was turtles all the way down.”
Rith broke out laughing.
Arton began stirring the stew again. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”
“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” replied the black bard.
“Surprised?”
“That you, Arton, sophisticated courtier and King’s Thief have never heard the turtles tale.”
Arton stirred a bit more. “Well?”
A smile played about the corners of Rith’s mouth. “Well what?”
“Well are you going to tell me the bloody thing or not?”
Again Rith laughed, and as Arton started to make some retort, she held out her hand to stop the flow of his words before they could begin.
“It seems there was a sailor in a dockside tavern in the city of Daloon holding forth on the shape of the world. ‘‘’Tis a sphere,’ he said, ‘round as a ball. I know, for I’ve sailed ’round it twice.’
“But among his listeners was an old widow woman who banged her cane on her table, rattling the trenchers fair. ‘Nonsense!’ she shouted, ‘and you are a damn fool for believing such to be so.’
“The sailor lad turned to her and asked, ‘If not a globe, dear mother, then what?’
“’Tis flat,’ she cried, ‘flat as a plate, as any fool can plainly see. And carried on the backs of four great elephants, one at each corner. The elephants themselves stand on the shell of an enormous great turtle, so there!’
“‘Ha!’ crowed the sailor, ‘if that be so, then pray tell, what does the turtle stand upon?’
“Why, upon the back of another great turtle,’ she answered.
“‘Aha, madam!’ gloated the sailor as if he had trapped her. ‘And just what does that turtle stand upon?’
“‘What a damn fool question,’ replied the woman, ‘for as anyone with a lick of sense can see, it’s turtles all the way down.’”
Rith broke into gales of laughter, but to her amazement no one else did. She looked about from one Fox to another, her gaze finally coming to rest on Arton. “What?” she asked.
“The sailor was a fool,” said Arton.
“Fool?”
Arton snorted. “To believe such nonsense. A sphere indeed.”
“I don’t think so, Arton,” replied Rith. “When Alar and I sailed over the world, he told me it was round, a globe.”
“You mean, like a ball?”
“Yes, like a ball. A great big one, but a ball nevertheless.”
“Well if that’s so, why doesn’t everything on the bottom fall off? I mean, it should be like that trap we almost fell victim to—gradually curving downward till you slip and slide to your doom. But look around you”—Arton swept a hand in a wide arc—”it’s flat. And no matter how far we’ve traveled, it has remained flat. Other than hills and valleys, I’ve never seen any downcurving of the land. So if it is a ball, then it has to be, um, enormous, so enormous that everything at hand looks flat; and we have to be near the top, where we won’t fall . . . if it’s a ball, that is. And so I ask you again: if it is a ball, why doesn’t everything on the bottom fall off?”
Rith turned up her hands and shrugged. “Arda may know, but I certainly do not.”
Kane shuddered. “It would be hideous—pitching off the world—like plunging into a bottomless pit. Falling forever.”
Arik gazed at the stars overhead. “If the world is a big sphere and if things on the bottom do not fall off, then I think Rith is right: it’s Arda’s doing. Magic, I suppose. God magic.”
“Magic or not,” said Lyssa, eyeing the bubbling stew, “let’s eat.”
Over the next three days the weather held, and southwesterly they rode through sunshine across rolling grassland. But on the morning of the day after they were awakened by a light patter of rain—a steady drizzle which lasted throughout the day and well into the night.
The following day, the tenth since setting out from White Mountain, a chill dampness clasped the downsloping earth and grey skies rode overhead. Late in the afternoon they came across a pair of wagon ruts, running up from the southeast and curving west, and these they followed down the tilt of the canting land as night drew upon them.
And as darkness fell, a chill fog rose up to cover the world; they could see but paces ahead.
“We must be near the Drasp,” said Lyssa, eyeing the mist all about.
“Most likely,” said Arik, lighting a lantern, its illumination swallowed up by the mist.
Foxes mumbled their agreement.
“Let us hope these ruts lead to good camping grounds,” growled Kane. “I’m hungry.”
By the light of the lantern down the land they rode, following the wagon track. Finally Lyssa said, “I smell water.”
“The fog?” asked Arton.
“No, more like . . . a river . . . or bog.”
“The Drasp,” hissed Rith.
“Hold up,” said Arik, reining in his steed, the mule and horse on the tethers behind stopping as well. Arik dismounted.
Foxes ringed ’round their leader.
Arik squatted and touched one of the ruts. “It occurs to me that this track might be where Horax’s wagons run, those which bring supplies to his hold.”
“If so,” said Lyssa, “then it’s been awhile since he’s used it. I mean, these wheel marks are months old.”
“Nevertheless,” said Arik, “if it is a road, it may lead all the way to his . . . dwelling.”
“Then it may be warded,” rumbled Kane. “The track, I mean. Guards or some such. We wouldn’t want to tip our hand.”
“A road through a swamp like the Drasp seems unlikely,” said Rith.
Arton looked at the bard, his eyes questioning.
“If Lyssa’s map is accurate,” said Rith, “then it’s thirty, thirty-five miles to the center. That seems a long way to build a road through a bog like the Drasp.”
“Oh,” said the thief quietly. “I see what you mean.”
“Even so,” said Arik, “a road is a remote possibility.”
“More likely they use boats or rafts,” said Kane.
“Or large flying things,” said Lyssa, shuddering at the thought.
“Regardless,” said Arik, “let us go forward with caution, for Kane could be right: the way might be warded ahead.”
And so, forward they went afoot, leading the horses and mules, Lyssa out front, her lantern lit but with its hood barely cracked, a thin beam of light illuminating the track.
And as they pressed forward, radiant Orbis arose, unseen above the cloaking fog yet shining its light down into the mist and spreading an eerie luminance throughout. And through this pale, pale glow, forward went the Foxes.
Of a sudden Lyssa stopped. Cocking her head, she listened, then turned and made her way back to the others. “I thought I heard voices.”
“Distant or near?” asked Arik.
“Distant, I think. It’s difficult to tell in this fog.”
Arik turned to Rith. “You have the best ears of us all. Go forward and listen and tell us what you hear. I’ll hold your steed.”
“I’m going with her,” said Lyssa, handing her reins to Arton.
Into the fog crept the two, disappearing in the wan glow as the others waited, their weapons in hand. Moments dragged by and moments more, stretching into unbearably long intervals. But at last Rith and Lyssa came back through the luminous mist.
“There’s a river and a dock,” said Lyssa. “It appears to be a landing for a pull-rope ferry.”
Arik looked at Rith. “Voices?”
“Coming from the other side,” she said. “Sounds like several men. Arguing mostly. A hundred or so yards away.”
Arik raised an eyebrow. “The ferry crew?”
“Most likely,” answered Lyssa.
“Let’s go take a look,” rumbled Kane.
It was thus that the
y came to the river, the wheel ruts leading down to a dock jutting out into the water flowing sluggishly past. Planted in the ground of the riverbank stood a heavy pole on which was mounted a bell barely seen in the glowing mist above, its pull-cord dangling wetly down. Tied to the pole was a thick rope, this one running out low across the water to disappear into the fog.
“Lyssa’s right,” grunted Kane. “It’s a pull-rope ferry.”
From the opposite side came a gabble of voices, some cheering, others shouting in anger.
“Sounds like more than a handful to me,” muttered Arik.
Rith nodded. “Me, too. Maybe twenty or so.”
“In any event we’ve got to cross this river,” said Lyssa. “It would be nice if we didn’t have to swim.”
“You mean, use the ferry,” said Arik.
Lyssa shrugged.
“We could ring the bell for service,” said Arton, “but I think we’d better find out first just what lies across the way.”
“What do you propose?” asked Arik.
Arton pointed at the rope. “I’ll go over and see what’s what.”
Arik looked ’round at the others. Finding no objection in any face, he turned to Arton and nodded.
Swiftly Arton shinnied up the bell pole, and when he was above the ferry pull-rope, he twisted about and carefully placed one foot then the other upon the heavy line. Then along the wet rope he quickly stepped, his arms held outward for balance. Foxes followed alongside him and out onto the dock until they could go no farther. But Arton went onward above the river . . . and he disappeared into the gleaming fog.
Again long moments passed slowly as the Foxes waited. And across the water came drifting voices, catcalls and snarls, shouts of glee, yells of anger. And a soft splash.
“Dretch!” hissed Kane. “He’s fallen off.”
Lyssa looked at Arik then at the near riverbank. “Shall I go downstream? See if I can find him when he swims ashore?”
Arik shook his head. “If he’s fallen, then he knows where we are and will find us easier than we could find him. Besides, he may swim to the other side and come back along the rope.”
Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure Page 29
